The People of the Mind Palace
by MoonKent
Summary: Sherlock's Mind Palace was the only place completely free of the normal, boring people. But, at some point, his opinion of them changed and they began to make appearances even in his head. He knows that it's somehow John's influence, but he's not sure how it all happened...
1. A Study in Potential Flatmates

**Disclaimer: I have no ownership of Sherlock or its characters. **

**Note: These chapters are written with the assumption that the Reader has seen the episodes referenced. If you haven't, you still might enjoy them, but they may seem a little disjointed.**

* * *

**Chapter One - A Study in Potential Flatmates**

He's not sure how it happened. No, that's not accurate, he does know the vague generalities of how it took place, but he's not entirely sure _when_ or _why_.

But at some point, John Watson had changed his way of viewing the world.

* * *

Sherlock had never cared for people. They were irrelevant at best, idiots at worst. Invariably annoying, they were worth only the data that they could produce. If he was very lucky, they would sometimes create moderately interesting puzzles for him to solve. Other than that, they were a nuisance to be endured.

In close proximity for extended periods of time, they graduated up to full-blown torment.

He'd had flatmates before. None had lasted more than a couple of weeks. He wasn't sure whether he or they had first found the situation intolerable. Having now been kicked out of his three previous flats (something about disturbance of the peace, menace to society, irreparable damages, the usual complaints, he'd been ignoring them), he would now need another flatmate if he wished to take the place that Mrs. Hudson was offering. One offhand remark later, and in came John.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing that could be said about him was that he was an extreme example of the utterly ordinary. True, he'd had a stint as a soldier overseas, but the after-effects were thoroughly predictable: wound, pension, therapist. Nothing special. In fact, he was even easier to read than most other people. Sherlock was almost dismissive.

But, he needed a flatmate.

And this was a man who couldn't afford to say no. That would make things much easier in the future.

So, he'd astonished the man with his skills, given him the address of the space, and promptly moved in that afternoon.

John agreed to the flat (though of course he'd _had_ to comment on Sherlock's mess), and everything worked out as he'd expected.

Then he'd gotten lucky. Four serial suicides, seemingly random and unrelated, the police completely stumped! (Well, they never knew what was going on, but it was nice to hear them admit it.)

The only problem was…Anderson was at the crime scene. Oh, how he hated to work with Anderson. The man took idiocy to an art form. But Sherlock refused to let Anderson keep him from his puzzle. He would just have to go and deal with it like he always did.

On his way out, he caught a side-long glimpse of John. The former soldier had lowered his body into a chair, and seemed a little at loss as to what to do with himself. Another person might have assumed that he was weary and in pain, but Sherlock noted the way in which his muscles clenched and his jaw locked and his eyes were sharp and clear even he stared at the room. No, the only thing he was weary of was inaction. He considered, as he put on his coat and scarf. If he brought John to the crime scene, he could take Anderson's place, and Sherlock would be free to think without distraction.

He stepped back inside and extended the offer. As expected, John agreed with alacrity, and they set off.

It was in the cab ride that Sherlock noticed the first thing different about him. After explaining his deductive logic and giving a demonstration via John's phone, John's reply was that it was…extraordinary.

Well.

He'd never had someone _praise_ his skills before. They required them, tolerated them, but never enjoyed _hearing_ them.

Hmmm.

At the crime scene, he'd expressed his amazement twice more, to the point that Sherlock asked, "Do you know you do that out loud?"

He'd apologized, unnecessarily, and Sherlock found himself almost starting to like the fellow.

* * *

He'd texted John later, asking him to return to the flat right away. He'd done his investigating, he'd reached his conclusions, now it was time to set his plan in motion. It took John forever to arrive, and for some reason, he seemed annoyed at the inconvenience of trekking across London just so that his phone could be used to send a text. Sherlock didn't see what the problem was, couldn't he tell that it was a compliment? He could have 'borrowed' (in the most liberal sense of the word) anyone's phone, but instead, he was allowing John to participate and share the fun.

Over the course of the conversation that followed, Sherlock noted something else about John: his apparent sense of loyalty. Twice did he take Sherlock's side of things: once explicitly when he refused to cooperate with Sherlock's 'arch-enemy' (_Mycroft, such a drama queen,_ he thought dismissively), and once implicitly when he automatically assumed Sherlock's innocence in the case despite potentially incriminating evidence.

Sherlock wasn't sure if that made him misguided and naïve, or if there was something deeper at work here.

In any case, he decided to bring John along with him again for part two of the plan.

* * *

John seemed to feel the need for basic conversation on their stakeout as they awaited the arrival of the serial killer. Sherlock supposed he could understand why; for the deductively inept, there was no other way to get information from a person. He disliked when it interrupted his thinking, though.

Then the appearance of a suspiciously placed cab left no more time for either thinking or conversation. They dashed outside, and it pulled away from the curb. Sherlock immediately focused inward and darted into his Mind Palace, as he called it. It was the mental organization of data in his mind so that it was readily available and accessible. There were all kinds of facts, events, dates, and locations that he had found desirable to keep over the years.

It was the one place he could go and be guaranteed solitude. No people to disturb him there.

Right now, he needed the room he used most frequently: the Map Room. Pulling up the immediately neighboring streets, he calculated the only possible route of the cab, and an alternative path by foot that he and John could use to intercept it. "Come on, John!" he cried, and took off.

The chase was glorious, although it ended in failure. The cab's passenger was a newly-arrived American, clearly not their desired killer.

Despite that, the chase was not completely worthless. Thanks to the heat of the moment, John now had conclusive proof that he didn't need his cane anymore. Which would serve to make future endeavors much more fun.

* * *

The serial killer (_the cabbie_, it should have been obvious from the start) enticed Sherlock away with the promise of revealing his method. And in truth, he did. The man was an arrogant schemer who sought to prove his so-called _genius_ to the world by playing mind games with his victims. He challenged Sherlock to play, too.

_Choose a pill, either pill. Prove how clever you are._

Sherlock didn't need to play. He already knew that he would win.

He would have.

He didn't have to prove anything.

Because this other man couldn't outthink him. Couldn't outthink Sherlock.

He couldn't have.

But he didn't have the chance to find out, because just before the pill reached his mouth, a bullet flew through the window and hit the cabbie just below the left shoulder. Sherlock hurried to the window, but there was no sign of the shooter.

He turned back to the cabbie, but the man refused to tell him whether Sherlock would've won. Well, it didn't matter, because Sherlock got something more important out of him just before he died. The name of his sponsor: Moriarty.

The police and the Yard took their time in arriving, and for some reason kept treating Sherlock like he was in shock or something. He didn't know why, it was just a simple murder. The only mystery was the identity of the killer. A crack shot, inured to violent situations, probably military, yet with moral principles…

He suddenly caught sight of John across the parking lot.

John….

Of course, it was the obvious answer when put together like that: John's loyal character, and his military background. Yet, somehow, he would not have deduced this result beforehand.

That was when he realized how shallow, and, in some cases, even off-base, his deductions about John truly were. Underneath the surface, John was quite far from ordinary.

He…hadn't expected that.

* * *

**A/N: **_To be continued...This will cover the course of all nine (of the current) episodes of Sherlock._


	2. The Mind Thinker

**Disclaimer: I have no ownership of Sherlock or its characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Two - The Mind Thinker**

People are idiots.

Well, people are always idiots, of course, but the annoying tragedy is when _they_ don't know it. Or refuse to accept it, whichever.

Like Sebastian Wilkes. An old university acquaintance, Sherlock didn't need to be a detective to read the arrogance in his face as he sat across the desk. The face that said, _You thought you were so smart back then, but look here, I'm making the big money at the bank, and you're merely working freelance._

Sherlock was in no mood for ridicule and side-stepped the loaded comments. It seemed truly ironic that Sebastian was so insulting of the very skills that he was hiring Sherlock for. Doubtless he half-wished Sherlock to fail utterly, and have a good laugh at his expense.

Fortunately, the other half wished to have a mystery solved, and it was a mystery that Sherlock was actually willing to consider. No monetary _incentives_ needed; he left John to handle that one. On to the only thing worthwhile here.

Spray-painted graffiti that had appeared on a piece of artwork in an empty office within sixty seconds of blank camera space. No sign of the intruder, no clues as to how he got in and out.

That wasn't too hard. There was no possibility of him entering via the inside of the building. Ergo, he came up the outside, through the balcony doors. No matter that the balcony was forty-two floors up and an intruder _likely_ wouldn't do it. In a sea of impossibilities, the statistical likelihood of a single probability was irrelevant. It still outstripped the odds of zero. Sherlock didn't understand why more people didn't _get _that.

It also didn't take much effort to guess that the graffiti was a message intended for a specific recipient. It took a little more effort to deduce exactly who that recipient was: a full twelve minutes of crisscrossing the entire trading floor, crouching and standing at various levels, before he'd confirmed that the entire piece of graffiti was only visible from a handful of desks. And of those desks' users, only one of them was scheduled to work the night that it appeared.

So easy.

Finally, it was time for the fun part.

* * *

It took only a few moments of smooth talking to the trader's neighbor to gain access to his flat. Like at the bank, the balcony doors were the only open entrance. Like at the bank, the stamp of luxury was everywhere. Unlike at the bank, the message involved a dead body: the trader, Van Coon.

Sherlock dutifully notified Lestrade, and eventually the police deigned to arrive. They scattered around the flat, attempting to look for evidence, while Sherlock kept his efforts focused in the bedroom. Particularly Van Coon's suitcase, which showed that he had just recently returned from a three-day trip. And had clearly brought something with him, judging by the compression of the clothes in his suitcase.

He spoke his findings to John, and was mildly pleased when John seemed to be following them to their natural conclusions…then vaguely disappointed when he didn't seem to really get it after all. He didn't dwell on the emotions, but continued his inspections, when one of the officers interrupted them. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Something-or-Other, but all Sherlock heard was 'Not-Lestrade'. Lestrade had his faults, but at least he knew when he was out of his depth and was usually willing to listen to Sherlock. Not-Lestrade was just an idiot.

Sherlock had no time for idiots.

* * *

Returning to the flat, Sherlock prepared to enter his Mind Palace. The key to everything was that coded message, the cipher. He needed to know where it was from, what it was connected to.

A fruitless hour later, he opened his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Nothing. This was frustrating. No familiarity in the symbols, no cross-references for the circumstances. He needed more, more data, more anything.

'More' came a short while later in the form of another mysterious locked-door killing. The victim seemed the polar opposite of Van Coon: out-of-shape where he was lean, middle-class where he liked luxury, journalist as opposed to trader. But, like Van Coon, the victim, one Brian Lukis, also received an identical coded message just hours before he died. Even the spray-paint used matched exactly. Now they had something to work with. Sherlock just needed to consult a professional on the matter.

Sherlock didn't know why John was acting so surprised. Surely he understood that Sherlock couldn't be the expert on _everything _in the world. There was just too much so superfluous or one-time-use information. But Sherlock _did_ make an effort to know who might have the information that he needed. In this case, a street-smart graffiti artist.

Unfortunately, since said artist was working at the time, rather illegally, they were interrupted by the police. Sherlock and the artist bolted, but John lacked the experience to do so. Sherlock wasn't worried, he would be fine.

And he was, when he eventually showed up at the flat again several hours later. Sherlock noted vaguely that John was annoyed, but ignored it. Couldn't he see that there was a mystery worth pondering? Sherlock couldn't be bothered to think about people at such a time. This was so much more interesting and fun. And now that John was back, he could go after Lukis' documents while Sherlock would search through Van Coon's. Eventually, the two paths would have to intersect.

* * *

Van Coon didn't keep clear written records of his activities, but he did retain all his receipts (no doubt to ensure that he could put it on the company's tab). Once his secretary had laid them all out on the desk, Sherlock began to put the various puzzle pieces in order.

He'd recently taken a trip to Dalian, China, arriving home on Friday. On Monday, the day he'd died, his calendar was blank, but he'd taken a taxi to the West End, eaten lunch, and then returned via the Tube that afternoon. He must have been carrying something, something heavy, which he then delivered somewhere or to someone not work-related. Then he stopped for food on his way back to Piccadilly Station.

The question now was: what and where was his drop-off point?

Sherlock was elated. So much thinking to do! Now he just needed to figure exactly what the location was.

Unfortunately, nothing on the Chinatown street shouted at him that it was the scene where Van Coon had been engaged in potentially criminal activity. Any one of numerous businesses or residences could be the drop-off point. But surely there had to be something there, some clue that Sherlock was just missing. He turned round and round, trying to absorb all the details. Where was it, where was it, where…

He suddenly collided into a man walking by. It was John.

John! John would help him think!

Sherlock quickly began to spout his findings. Speaking them aloud would help him find his missing clue…

"That shop over there," John interrupted, pointing.

Sherlock frowned, scanning it. "How can you tell?" He failed to see anything remarkable about it.

John held up a book. "Lukis' diary. He was here, too. He wrote down the address."

Well, that was…annoying simple. "Oh."

* * *

It happened again later. When Sherlock's graffiti expert found more of the painted symbols, John was the one to find an entire coded message on a brick wall nearby. By the time Sherlock got there, someone had painted the entire thing over. No! And John was the only one who'd seen it! He'd never be able to remember it all!

Unless, maybe, one of Sherlock's memory tricks would work on him…Sherlock pounced on him, spinning him round, and trying to get him to focus. John didn't really cooperate, but insisted that he would have no trouble picturing the symbols…once he managed to pull out his mobile phone and look at the camera.

Maybe Sherlock was trying to make this case too complicated.

But if it got too easy, it would cease to be enjoyable! And then it would become pointless.

Considering that the entire purpose of being a consulting detective was to find sources of mental stimulation to save Sherlock from a life of unbearable monotony, that was a daunting prospect indeed.

* * *

An investigative opportunity the next day brought back the chance for more fun. Sherlock went with John and some random woman from John's new job (a date, to use John's terminology; although, for some reason, he kept insisting that Sherlock's definition of the word didn't match) to see a circus that Sherlock was certain was a cover for the smuggler's ring that they were seeking.

And it was as good as he'd hoped. Clues were discovered, enemies were chased, and Sherlock proved his superiority once again.

Unfortunately, that didn't prevent the annoying doctor woman from accompanying Sherlock and John back to their flat. She kept asking bothersome questions and interrupting Sherlock's train of thought.

Right up until she noticed the beginnings of a translation on the coded message that they had shown Soo Lin Yao.

Maybe he needed to redefine his opinion of the normal, boring idiots around him, if they kept noticing things that he shouldn't have overlooked.

Even DI 'Not-Lestrade' turned out useful in the end, once Sherlock had actually solved the mystery. Sherlock decided to graduate his nickname up to 'Dim-of-the-Yard' (short for Dimmock) rather than just 'Lowly Idiot'. He might even have a decent career one day, if he kept listening to Sherlock's judgment.

Maybe…maybe normal people weren't quite as awful as Sherlock had always supposed…

No, that was taking things much too far.

* * *

**A/N: **_To be continued...This was the hardest chapter to write up; hopefully, future chapters will come faster. Also, yes, the title of this chapter is rather lame, but I couldn't think of any other way to play on the original title. If you have any suggestions, let me know! (I thought about "The Blind Banker is Really Just an Idiot", but that seemed too long.)_


	3. The Wrong Game

******Disclaimer: I have no ownership of Sherlock or its characters.**

* * *

**Chapter Three - The Wrong Game**

Bored. Bored, bored, _**bored**_!

Sherlock _hated _to be bored.

The petty amusement of shooting at smiley faces on the wall waylaid the boredom for the whole of five minutes, but then John wouldn't even let him do _that_.

John just didn't understand him.

Like how he assumed that Sherlock would be flattered by his write-up of the so-called "Study in Pink" (a ridiculous name if Sherlock ever heard one), even though it reduced Sherlock's exacting science to a mere adventure of sorts, and included the line about Sherlock being "spectacularly ignorant about some things".

Well, so? The rest of the world knew all about such trivialities as the current Prime Minister, or the astronomical order of things, and it hadn't made them smarter or more interesting, had it? So why would Sherlock want to expend valuable brain cells for such wasted information?

He found himself snapping at John rather more harshly than usual, until John finally snatched up his jacket and walked out. Sherlock stood and watched him from the window as he strode down the street and out of sight.

If only John wasn't so confined to the ordinary way of thinking. Sherlock wondered vaguely if it was possible to train a mind like his to reason properly.

Well, that was pointless speculation anyway, because there wasn't a single thing happening worth investigating—

**BOOM!**

The explosion shattered the windows and flung Sherlock facedown to the floor.

Well, maybe that brought a _little_ excitement to the day.

* * *

Which didn't last long. Sherlock wasn't sure if annoyance was better or worse than boredom. Perhaps slightly better, if only because it made the time pass a bit faster.

And admittedly, it was rather gratifying to annoy Mycroft as much as Mycroft annoyed him. He wanted Sherlock to go off on some investigation of 'national importance', which, of course, Sherlock refused out of principle.

John came back in the middle of the conversation, surprisingly worried about Sherlock (it was just a gas leak explosion, nothing serious except for the mess it made). He helped poke a few jabs at Mycroft, who finally left, and Sherlock decided he wasn't really annoyed at John anymore.

Then, _at last_, something interesting happened. Lestrade called about a rather unique package delivered via strong-box in the apparently-not-gas-related explosion of yesterday. Arriving at the station, Sherlock proceeded to examine it, and found a phone inside: in particular, one made to look exactly like the one from…

"From the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock glowered. Why was _everyone_ reading John's blog? And, of course, they _would _focus on the one section of things he didn't know. Well, he had a mystery on his hands, _which none of them could solve_, so…there.

* * *

The clues on the phone led to a pair of trainers in a locked room below their flat, and a cryptic phone call from a woman held hostage. Through her, a bomber threatened another not-gas-related explosion unless Sherlock solved the puzzle within twelve hours.

Sherlock was elated. If this was who he thought it was (and Sherlock was never wrong), then this would be most interesting indeed.

He took the trainers back to the lab at St. Bart's for testing. At some point, John asked about the hostage, and seemed rather disturbed by Sherlock's flippant dismissal of her. He wondered why. It wasn't as if they could help her. Couldn't John see that focusing on unchangeable details was a waste of valuable time?

Like Molly with her new boyfriend, who was clearly gay and not really interested in her. Telling her now would save her time and the pain of the inevitable break-up, so wasn't this the better option?

Why was it so important to John that Sherlock care about people?

Maybe it came back to his lack of deductive skills. If he could learn to think logically, maybe he wouldn't put so much stock in emotional responses.

Time to test it. He handed one of the trainers to John to see what he could observe. And he did…decently well. Missed all the important things, but he did see _some_ details. As Sherlock pointed them out, the picture suddenly came together and Sherlock knew the answer.

Carl Powers. His first 'case'. A murder that no one believed was murder.

Now he knew 'who'. Time to figure out 'how'.

* * *

Mycroft kept trying to interrupt him from his work for his case of 'national importance'. Finally, Sherlock sent John off to find the missing plans. Mycroft would be happy (more-or-less), and John might improve his skills.

In any case, it gave Sherlock time to solve the real mystery. Which he did, three hours later.

The next test came the following morning, with another clue and another hostage and another time limit.

Again, Sherlock solved it.

He received the third.

This time, he solved the puzzle within the first couple of hours. He sent John off (ostensibly to gather data), while he researched possible connections between the various mysteries so far. If he could find out more information about the bomber, he might be able to get the jump on him.

He was pleased to see that John was taking a more aggressive role in the crime-solving. He even managed to find a plausible solution to the third case. He was _wrong_, unfortunately, but it was still a creative answer that he'd found without Sherlock's help. There might be hope for him yet.

He posted the correct solution on his blog (which the bomber was monitoring) before the final hour was up. The hostage (an elderly, blind woman) called to confirm it.

Then she started to describe the bomber's voice.

An explosion cut off the call.

Sherlock sat back in his seat, staring straight ahead.

John took him to task later. If Sherlock hadn't been so caught up in the mystery, he might have realized that spending twelve hours in an explosive vest was quite mentally taxing on a person, and that delaying their release might have consequences! Like twelve people dying!

Sherlock didn't know how to reply. Caring about them wouldn't help save them, would it? In fact, it actually made the task harder, since it could interfere with the deductive process, something John refused to understand! Sherlock _wasn't_ the adventure hero that John's blogs wanted him to be.

* * *

The fourth test passed without incident, though it was a near thing. Sherlock didn't solve the case until the very last second, and then only because of some chance information overheard in the planetarium.

John apparently couldn't help but point out that last bit to him later.

* * *

No fifth test appeared. Sherlock sent John off for more investigating on Mycroft's case, following him to see what he would do. He was glad to see that John finally came to some proper deductions about it.

Maybe if he kept pushing John, he might one day be something really worthwhile.

They recovered the defense plans, and Sherlock began to set his own plan in motion.

It was time to meet this Moriarty in person.

* * *

The pool area was darkened and deserted.

Sherlock turned and saw a figure moving in the shadows. Then it stepped out into the light and it was John who stared back at him.

It was the single worst moment of Sherlock's life.

Everything in his mind crashed and raced simultaneously. How could John be Moriarty, surely Sherlock would've seen it? Some sign? But John cared about people and Moriarty helped kill people and was it all part of some master plan and how could John be Moriarty?

Then John pulled his jacket open to reveal the explosives underneath, and Sherlock's brain jolted back into proper working order again. John was in trouble, and Sherlock _would not stand_ for this maniac to torment him. He treated John as a mere puppet and Sherlock suddenly found himself infuriated and horrified by that.

John was much more than a puppet. John was…

John _mattered_.

John mattered to Sherlock. And not in some clinically detached way. He'd never realized that people could be important like that. Not to him. But somehow, in that moment, Sherlock knew that if anything happened to John, he would never be the same.

He felt it even more keenly when John suddenly rushed Moriarty to give Sherlock the chance to escape. The idea that someone would be willing to sacrifice their life for _him_ was almost inconceivable. Sherlock knew exactly what people thought of him. They hated him, they avoided him, they considered him pesky, arrogant, and a freak of nature.

But they wanted what he could offer, so they tolerated him.

But John, who didn't get anything from him, not only tolerated him, but was willing to pay any cost to protect him.

Perhaps that was the moment when his views of the world first began to change.

* * *

**A/N: **_To be continued...(But unfortunately, it will be an extra week or two before I can get the next chapter out)._


	4. A Handle on the Obvious

**Chapter Four: A Handle on the Obvious**

Why, exactly, was John's blog so popular? Sherlock could not figure it out. It wasn't like there was any information on it that wasn't on Sherlock's own website. The only difference he could see was that John updated his quite frequently. Over the course of the summer, he typed up half a dozen different cases (including one unsolved one, which irked Sherlock to no end). Each one consisted of a somehow meaningful title and a series of paragraphs designed to be more entertaining than illuminating.

It always came back to people. _"People enjoy what I write." "People want to know you're human." "People like the hat." _John always cared what they thought. And he was always so disappointed by Sherlock's callous treatment of them.

Perhaps Sherlock should make more of an effort. But it was _so_ hard to be polite to the boring people. Especially when they _insisted _on being so annoying.

Well, he would just avoid people altogether, not interact with them at all, unless there was something really interesting happening. He told John, and John agreed. Or would have, if he hadn't been out.

It was hardly Sherlock's fault that he wasn't there to hear it.

* * *

Unfortunately, people still insisted on interacting with Sherlock anyway. Like the man who came rushing in, terrified that he would be blamed for a murder for which he was the only witness.

_Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy – and yet the inspector in charge thinks he's an audacious criminal mastermind?_

Then he remembered what John said about trying to be polite, so he reassured the witness still sitting there, "Don't worry, this is just stupid."

There. Good deed done for that day.

Then there was Mycroft, who always picked the most inopportune times to interfere. But thankfully, Sherlock didn't have to be polite to Mycroft. Even if he did intend to follow through with the case Mycroft wanted him to solve.

Sherlock had everyone around him properly labeled and put in their space in his head. He knew how they would react and what they were thinking. (Most of the time. There were a couple of exceptions. John, for example, still occasionally surprised Sherlock.) The world just made more sense that way.

But then, _she_ came along. The Woman, Irene Adler.

Sherlock didn't know where she fit.

In what was initially a trivially mundane recovery of compromising photographs, the Woman was a step ahead of Sherlock from the start. She defeated most of his attempts to deduce any details about her, and her knowledge of everything he'd been doing that morning was disconcerting, to say the least.

But he quickly forced his mind to adapt and regained control of the situation once more. Despite the additional variables, his original plan to retrieve her phone and the photographs on it worked flawlessly.

In the euphoria of having restored balance to the universe, he briefly underestimated her. For a moment, his back was turned, and the next, he felt the sharp prick of a needle in one shoulder.

Sherlock stumbled and went down on one knee. She hit him with a riding crop and he falls back. The room begins to sway dizzily. Unable to stop her, she takes her phone and departs through…the sky-window. Or something. Sherlock's fuzzy is brain, and his tongues can't talk words poperlly.

Where is John? He needs John…

The Woman appears in his head and she knows the answer to that morning's case. She even walks him through it.

This not real…She not here…or he not there…where is real…

His mind turns and then he turns and he falls and falls…

She laughs and her breath tickles his ear.

And suddenly he jerked awake in his own bed. His head still wasn't clear and the room still swayed, but at least things were vaguely coherent.

He soon realized that she had tampered with his phone, customizing the text alert to a rather…orgasmic sound. _"Till the next time, Mr. Holmes."_

Well, he refused to acknowledge it. He may not have won the battle, but Sherlock didn't have to admit a loss either. However, a small part of him (a _very _small part) grudgingly acknowledged that her resourcefulness had earned a modicum of respect from him.

Regardless, case closed.

* * *

Life returned to normal for Sherlock. He continued to solve cases, John continued to wish that he wouldn't be so trenchant around people, and Irene Adler continued to text him on a regular basis.

Which wasn't quite so normal, and was in fact, rather annoying. He couldn't decide what her motives might be. Given her profession, one could logically assume that her interest was sexual in nature, but clearly there had to be more involved here. She liked to win. Thoroughly and aggressively. The greater the challenge, the more extreme the method. Yet self-preservation seemed to be her greatest interest.

What was her game?

Lately, for some reason, he'd found himself questioning people's motives more and more. It wasn't enough to simply deduce _what_ had happened, he began to wonder _why_. Maybe it was all that pressure from John about how he interacted with others, but, whatever the cause, he didn't dismiss people quite so casually.

He wasn't sure that he liked that. It made daily life more complicated. He had to work harder when he looked at people, the additional question buzzing in his ear.

He missed the simplicity of life before.

Didn't he?

John insisted on a Christmas party at the flat. It had been years since he had celebrated the holiday, and now he was surrounded by people that he was expected to socialize with amiably for hours on end. He couldn't even slip off to do some experiments, he'd still be able to hear all of them. The pressure and noise grated on him, and he found himself unable to restrain his cutting remarks.

Molly bore the brunt of it. But she always did make such an easy target of herself. Sherlock couldn't help but point out the obvious. However, when his train of thought was interrupted by his name written on a meticulously wrapped present, he'd realized that he might have gone too far with his comments.

Why did she persist in her interest in him? Sherlock was no fool; he knew exactly how harshly he came across to others. Part of it was intentional, to keep the boring and annoying people away, and the rest was because he just didn't care.

Mycroft had always told him that caring was not an advantage, and Sherlock had always believed him. His own interactions and experiments had borne it out as well.

But now, for the first time, he found himself questioning that statement.

John cared, and he was far from weak.

Sherlock didn't know anymore. But he did give Molly an actual apology.

* * *

Sherlock didn't know how he felt about Irene Adler either. When he found she was dead, he felt the smallest pangs of regret. He chose to apply it to the puzzle of her that he'd never solved.

When he found that she was alive, his thoughts were even more jumbled.

It took a threat to Mrs. Hudson to snap them working straight again. Mrs. Hudson, he knew how he felt about her. He wouldn't call it caring, per say…clearly he was looking out for his own best interests. Having Mrs. Hudson around made things more convenient, that was all.

Wasn't it?

For the first time, he texted Irene Adler back: _Happy New Year._

* * *

His chance to determine his exact feelings came unexpectedly some weeks later. He and John came home to discover the Woman herself had snuck into the flat and was sleeping in his bed. She had come to collect her phone from him, now that it was known that she was alive.

Sherlock had not yet cracked the password to unlock it and had no intention of giving up. But despite his efforts to trick her into telling him, she thwarted him once more, again with that arched eyebrow and bemused look.

He stared back, trying to figure her out. He was still certain that she wanted something from him, but _what was it_? What was she trying to achieve?

At length, she revealed that there was a code on her phone that needed solving. No one else could do it, there was only Sherlock left. She placed the phone in his hand, and leaned close, her breath warm on his ear.

Time seemed to slow, yet his mind raced at hyper-speed. The combination of letters and numbers flashed past his mind's eye, and seemed to fly of their own accord through his Mind Palace.

There! Seat allocations!

Inference: plane; 747 to be precise.  
Origin: British, given the source.  
Timing: imminent; within the week.

In his Schedules Room, only one flight matched all the requirements.

Solution: 747, Heathrow to Baltimore, 6:30 tomorrow evening.

He'd never deduced anything that quickly before. Was it her presence? Around her, his mind felt simultaneously sharper and more muddled. The clarity he could appreciate, the daze he did not.

He suspected what John would say. But how could Sherlock agree? If he compared his state of mind to that of which he'd observed and heard from others, he shared none of the classic symptoms associated with love.

But maybe...maybe he was looking at this the wrong way. Maybe the symptoms weren't on his side. Though Love itself was a foreign emotion to him, the mechanics of it were not beyond his reach. He just needed the right moment to test his hypothesis.

"John, would you please check the flight schedules, see if I'm right?"

But John's reply diverted his train of thought. "Yeah, you're right. Flight double-oh seven."

There was something in that phrase that sparked a memory. All thoughts of the Woman pushed aside, he jumped back into the Mind Palace to find it. There was something there, buried deep in one of the rooms. _Double-oh seven_.

_Double-oh seven._

An experience with John. Not an enjoyable one, as he recalled. Something about Sherlock's lack of pop culture knowledge. A movie.

_James Bond._

Mycroft. He'd used that word. _"Bond Air is a go, that's decided. Check with the Coventry lot."_

_Coventry._ What was Coventry?

He'd never had to travel between so many rooms before. Though he could track the data, it was almost hard to do so. He wondered there was a better way to record and sort things.

At last, he found it. Coventry: a bombing that could have been avoided, but if done so, would've alerted the enemy to the breaking of their code.

Mycroft had apparently found the solution to it.

And now he was not happy with Sherlock's interference.

* * *

Sherlock still didn't understand. How could he have been played so thoroughly? How could he have missed so much?

Was it this _caring_ thing again? If he hadn't been splitting his focus so much lately, would he have noticed the now-glaringly obvious details? Was Mycroft right, was it a disadvantage?

Just then, his ear caught something Irene said, "I can't take all the credit. Had a bit of help. Jim Moriarty sends his love. Gave me lots of advice about how to play the Holmes boys."

_Play_….that's right, everything had been a game so far, hadn't it? And she didn't put anything in unless she could get something out. Everything had something of _her_ in it.

And suddenly Sherlock _knew_.

She cared too much. She couldn't resist the chance for the ultimate laugh at someone else's expense. It was how she dominated them.

And now, it was how she would ultimately lose.

Her pass code: _I AM _**S H E R**_ LOCKED__._

And months of games came to an end.

* * *

The Woman wouldn't last long. Without her protection, there were plenty who wanted her gone completely.

But where was the fun in letting her go out like that?

Mycroft was right, caring was a disadvantage.

But he was also wrong. It made life so much more interesting, the victories so much sweeter.

Maybe it wasn't just John that he was learning from.

* * *

**A/N: **_Sorry for the delay. This chapter went through about four rewrites before I was satisfied with the direction it took. The second season has more character development, so these chapters will probably all be longer, and may take longer to be finished._


	5. Hounded by the Machiavellian

**Chapter Five - Hounded by the Machiavellian**

John was evil.

He'd been pushy before, strangely intent on making Sherlock into a 'better person'. He constantly pressured him to behave better, to speak nicely to people. Once he even insisted that Sherlock ask Mrs. Hudson how she'd been one morning (though he could see perfectly well that she'd gotten seven hours of sleep, mixed up a batch of biscuits, and that her hip was not bothering her nearly enough to account for the amount of 'herbal soothers' that she had put in her tea).

And Sherlock had unwillingly suffered through it (though telling John that he was wasting his time only seemed to make him more determined).

But today had been the last straw: John wouldn't let him have any cigarettes! Or anything! It didn't matter that it had been Sherlock's idea to forgo them in the first place. That had been ages ago, of course it had seemed like a good idea at the time. He hadn't known that humanity as a whole would have gotten so boring since then!

Sherlock couldn't take it anymore!

Then: the doorbell.

A young man of rather unremarkable appearance with a rather unremarkable story about childhood trauma. If it hadn't been for the cigarette that he'd smoked, Sherlock wouldn't have bothered with him at all.

He was just about to dismiss him when: "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"

Sherlock froze, then whirled back on the young man. "Say that again."

He was rather confused at first, but then repeated, "Mr. Holmes…they were the footprints of a gigantic…hound."

Sherlock ran all the words and phrases used by the man since he had walked through the door. There were no other atypical archaic terms. Only the one: 'hound'.

There was something there. Something worth looking into.

Finally.

* * *

Early investigations yielded little data. Though even the slightest bit was helpful; Sherlock refused to form theories based on guesswork. Cold, hard facts were the only worthwhile things on which to base logic.

Firstly, one local had managed to procure a cast of an anomalously large paw print. Then there was the militarized research facility, Baskerville, conducted various biological, chemical, and genetic experiments, mostly with the aim of developing something weaponizable. Of course, one could also mention the young man, Henry Knight's, fragile mental state. Each piece could lead in a different direction, but Sherlock was only interesting in a single, unifying theory.

Ah, but don't forget the most important piece of evidence: going out to the location of the sightings gives one 'a creepy feeling', 'downright haunting'.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He had no time for such nonsensical drivel. If people couldn't control their own emotions, that was their own problem; no need to share it with the rest of the world.

There was _always_ a logical explanation, and in this case, the easiest way to find it would be to re-enact the circumstances: take Henry back to Dewer's Hollow and see if anything attacked.

Accordingly, the three of them set out shortly after dusk. By the time they had reached the woods, darkness had fallen completely. Sherlock observed their surroundings carefully. So far, there were no signs out of the ordinary: no abnormally large prints, no overly disturbed underbrush, no violently killed remains. It was almost boring. There were several woodland sounds that Sherlock had not yet identified, but again, nothing that declared itself to be evidence of a "gigantic hound".

They arrived at the Hollow. Sherlock could hear that John had fallen somewhat behind, but paid no heed. He would catch up soon enough. As he started down the slope, a long howl suddenly echoed from the hillside around them. Sherlock looked up sharply, trying to determine its exact origin. Nothing was visible. He moved into the very bottom of the Hollow, noting the sudden plethora of prints that matched the cast he'd seen earlier.

For some reason, their presence made him feel an odd…sharpness, in his chest. He didn't have the time to identify it before the howl sounded again, much closer. He swung around…and froze.

The hound.

Just as Henry had described it. Gigantic, fearsome red eyes, razor-sharp teeth.

Sherlock tried to make his own additional observations, but for some reason, the sharpness in his chest began to spread rapidly to all his limbs. He couldn't move, couldn't think. All he could do was stare at the huge, black creature, with its glowing eyes and snarling mouth.

This couldn't be possible.

Abruptly, the hound turned and retreated back into the woods, and Sherlock found he could move and breathe again. He heard John approaching the Hollow, and he suddenly had to _**get out of there**_.

Part of him objected. He needed to gather evidence, make observations, follow the creature and see where it went. But Sherlock found he _did not care_. All that mattered was _**out**_.

John tried to question him, but Sherlock strode right past him. He heard Henry babbling behind him about seeing the hound, and Sherlock had his first clear thought: He _couldn't _have seen it. He couldn't have seen what he thought he saw. That creature was something out of a nightmare, it defied reason!

For the first time ever in his life, Sherlock couldn't trust his own eyes.

* * *

By the time he'd returned to the lodge, Sherlock had forcibly pushed his brain to start working properly again. Taking stock of himself, he found that though the strangely sharp feeling had mostly dissipated from his chest, he now had other symptoms. When he sat down, his hands and body trembled. He felt cold despite the warm fire. His breathing was unsteady.

He felt…afraid.

But _**why**_? Granted, he'd seen something that defied possibility, which for him was bound to cause a disturbing state. Even some sort of physical response to the stimulus wasn't too unexpected, though he thought he had subdued such reflexes years ago. But this was something else entirely, something that seemed to spread all through him, as if trying to consume him from the inside out.

Worst of all, it was a struggle to _think_ past it. He tried to focus, but the intermittent tremors in his body kept pulling his mind back, like he had no control. He'd never felt anything this strong.

He _**hated**_ losing control. All his life, his mind had been the one thing that was guaranteed not to fail him. People wanted to change you, or harass you, or manipulate you, but as long his mind was intact, Sherlock could beat them all. And the mind worked by reasoning alone. Emotions did nothing but interfere. All his life, he'd divorced himself from emotions, from _feelings_. If it didn't have basis in _fact_, he had no use for it.

And now, here he was, reduced to a quivering, useless mess, because of one simple emotion: fear.

He wanted it gone, he wanted it all _**gone**_!

And then John had the audacity to suggest that Sherlock was just "a bit worked up". Sherlock lashed out, his rapid-fire remarks utterly scathing.

And John said nothing, merely nodded, and left, but even Sherlock couldn't miss the pain in his eyes as he turned away.

It took him hours to finally return to normal.

* * *

Sherlock had never felt so relieved to have his head clear and his mind his own again. Once he could finally think straight, he realized the obvious cause: his behavior must have been drug-induced. He didn't know how or when he'd come into contact with anything, but that was the only possible explanation.

He didn't know how anyone could handle such extremes of emotion more than once. No wonder so many of the general populace were stupid, if they had _feelings_ like that on a regular basis.

He had new respect for John now. Despite all the feelings that John had for people, he still managed to react in a logical manner (most of the time, at least).

Thinking of John, the rush of emotion the previous evening must have brought forth traces of sentimentality as well; he felt rather guilty for how he'd treated his friend. Perhaps he should…apologize…or something…

Wait, his _friend_?

True, John had become rather indispensable over the years that they had known each other. True, he found that John's presence often stimulated Sherlock's own thought processes. But he'd never actually considered him in such terms before.

But if there was anybody that Sherlock could consider as his friend, John Watson _was_ the best and only candidate.

Besides, no one else would put up with being Sherlock's test subject. But John would understand the importance of Sherlock's theory for the case. Of course, he tested him nicely and extracted John from the situation as soon as he'd 'seen' the hound and proved him right.

After all, even Sherlock wouldn't torture his only friend unnecessarily.

Unless it was for something really, _really_ interesting.

* * *

**A/N: **_So, hopefully, that ending wasn't too abrupt. I didn't cover most of the episode, but I reached the most important bits, I think. The Mind Palace scene didn't really fit, though, so I was bit sad to cut it out._


End file.
